


Firelight

by MirandaShepard_93



Series: Charles & Rosie [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Awkwardness, Charles is a Sweetheart, Charles is a big fluffy idiot, Cunnilingus, F/M, Is a Tease, Mutual Pining, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Romance, Rosie Drummond, She knows what she wants, and it's Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22655071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirandaShepard_93/pseuds/MirandaShepard_93
Summary: Charles has many strengths, his ability to speak to women, or at least women that matter to him, isn't one of them. Thankfully for him, Rosie is a bit more forthright so when he invites her to come hunting with him, he begins to suspect that he might be the prey for once.
Relationships: Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Charles & Rosie [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631626
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

The camp is so loud, always.

It’s as if the Van der Lind gang can’t imagine tomorrow, so they throw everything into today. Everything; love and hate and fear, arguments and makeups and breakups. John and Abigail alone must separate and come back together eight times a week. At least. Charles fights for silence and serenity every day, and they seem to think that he has it, they can’t see the rage boiling under his skin or the sucking sadness that consumes him now and then. Then she arrived; a swirling ball of life that had busted Arthur out of jail on her own way out… 

Rosie had tricked them out of the sheriffs' cells without so much as a single shot fired. 

Yet she was nothing you’d expect; gentle, and witty, and always laughing, she took the cook work from Sadie happily, got along with Pearson, brought a smile to Molly's face, patched him up more than once. She even got Arthur to dance with her one night, and God he had wished it was him. Yes, Rosie’s a mix of Karen's bravery and Abigail's toughness and Tilly's sweetness, but she walks and dresses like a man and speaks almost like Sean. He can’t ever seem to find words, not for trivial things. Not for small talk. Not for women. So he smiles and says good morning, and flexes his hands when she’s too close. Imagines what it would be like to touch her,

“If you don’t tell her, Son, I will,” Dutch creeps like a cougar; he’s just as light on his feet, and twice as savvy. 

“Tell her what?”

“Oh, come now. She’s a fine woman,” he has a twinkle in his eye, “all that hair and sass… some men like it.”

“Molly?” 

“Now you’re being obtuse, and I don’t appreciate it.” 

Charles sighs, 

“You like her, Son, anyone can see that,” Dutch says again, “so tell her.”

“I’m not good with words,” Charles says, his only concession, 

“So _show_ her, Son, hell I don’t know just stop moping around and growling at Sean when he has the balls to do what you don’t.”

Mercurial. That was the word for Dutch Van der Lind. Of course, he was right. He tended to be right about the flaws of others. Charles rubs the back of his neck, works his jaw, rolls his shoulders, and tries to work up the courage to ask her to have dinner with him. 

  
  


“Miss Drummond?” He clears his throat as he approaches, announcing himself before he speaks, 

“Hello, Charles,” she says, breaking into a smile that sends his stomach spinning. God, he sees that smile in his sleep; it washes away all the wrongs in the world and makes him dizzy. Sometimes in the night, when the whisky takes hold, he thinks just being able to touch her would make everything right. That being able to into her would heal all the hurts he carried. In the face of that warm glow, his words dried up again. “Charles?”

“Do you have time to go hunting?” He asks, surprising even himself, 

“Hunting?” Rosie laughed, but it didn’t sting him; it was light and gentle, like warm water, “I suppose I do, but I don’t know if I’ll be any help to you.”

“I… you said you wanted to learn,” he says suddenly, “at the party. For Sean, and I thought that since it’s a nice evening and rabbits come out at dusk…” she’s staring, 

“That may be the most I’ve ever heard you speak.” She folds her arms. “I’d love to come hunting, maybe I can start being useful, even a little important.”

He wants to tell her that she’s already the most important person in the camp. 

She takes to the hunt with grace, like he knew she would; she moves gently, light on her feet, and when he helps her correct the way she held the bow she smells like night-blooming flowers and her hair tickles his cheek. 

“There’s one,” he whispers in her ear, mouth dry, “on you go.” 

And without hesitation, she creeps forward, leaving him to fight to keep his eyes from her legs. Of course, he fails and doesn't see the droop of her shoulders. The lack of form. The rabbit screams when it goes down, and just keeps screaming; wounded, not dead.

“Oh Christ,” she gasps and scrambles to her feet, “oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” he says, but she’s talking to the rabbit, hands fluttering around it as if she could somehow fix the damage. Charles pulled his knife from its sheath and plunged it into the wounded animal quickly, silencing it. 

“Oh,” it's not a word, but an exclamation, and for the first time there’s no smile on her face. No joy at all. “Oh.” She touches its head gently as if it could be comforted, “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s ok,” he says, “it happens.” A tear drips from her chin. “Please don’t cry.”

She turns to him quickly, as if yanked by some invisible force, and buries her face in his neck, shaking. The creeping happiness is sick, he knows it; she’s only clinging to him because of guilt and upset… but she’s holding tight and completely without shame. 

“It’s ok,” he says, “it’s done now.”

“I hurt it,” she gasps suddenly, 

“I know, but it’s not hurt now,” he says, because it’s all he can say, and she squirms in his arms, making him realise he’s holding too tight. “Let’s cook him,” he says and then laughs, “so it’s not in vain.”

For a second her face doesn’t change, and he thinks that it was too callous, too cold, then she smiles and laughs, wiping away the tears. 

“Oh God, I’ve been silly here, haven’t I Mr Smith?” Rosie asks, face slightly flushed. In the dying light of the day, she’s like an angel... or some kind of forest spirit wreathed in fire,   
“No,” he says, “not at all… compassion isn’t a weakness, Rose.”

She tilts her head, a twinkle in her eye, 

“I don’t think anyone’s called me Rose since my daddy died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says, and kisses his cheek suddenly, a spark of electricity, “I like it.” 

And just like that, she brushes past him towards the horses, leaving him frozen to the spot, lips swollen, heart pounding, with a spot on his cheek tingling. He follows like a puppy on a string, 

“Do you want to go back to camp?” He asks, his heart thudding hard against his ribs, 

“That would take half the night, wouldn’t it?”

“Sure,”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to camp out?” She asks, squinting, 

“I suppose, I just thought…” he trails off, “I didn’t know if you were… if you would be comfortable…”

“You going to do me harm, Charles?” She narrows her eyes, but they’re playful, 

“No! Never.” The thought makes him sick, 

“Then why would I be uncomfortable?” She asks, and then leaves him speechless with six words, “I know I’m safe with you.” 

“Always,” he says it with such feeling that it shames him, but she doesn’t react with anything more than a smile. He focuses on tying the last rabbit to his horse, and then on leading them back to a trail, “I saw a clearing about half a mile that way,” he points, 

“Lead on.”

  
  
  


Though she’s not too deft with a bow, Rosie skins the rabbits as if she’s been doing it all her life, 

“Well,” she says, “the pelts are beautiful… apart from this one,” she holds up her rabbit, “don’t know what happened to him.” 

Charles finds himself laughing, again. The joy she brings is almost unbearable, 

“You know,” she says, sitting the knife down, “I don’t hear you laugh often.” She raises her knees and rests her chin on them, “you should laugh more often. It’s a nice sound.”

“Thank you,” he has to look away from the brilliance she exudes. She’s like the sun. When he looks up again, she’s lying on her side, face resting on her hand, staring at him with a soft smile. The expanse of her legs with those trousers clinging to them, and the way the shirt, too baggy for her, drapes over her breasts is a little more than distracting, 

“I’m glad you asked me to come,” she says, her smile growing until it's all teeth, “I like spending time with you.”

If she was a whore he’d know she was coming on to him, hell if she was like Karen he’d know she was coming on to him. But she’s not, on either count. Despite being a former jailbird she seems to be a Nice Woman… and Nice Women haven’t taken an interest in him often. 

“Me too.” He manages to croak, and she licks her bottom lip. 

“Good.” 

The silence draws out like a blade along his lower stomach. He can’t look away; the tension in the air feels just like a hunt. Like there’s something between them, holding this moment, that will break if he looks away… but he can’t say how. He wants to tell her that he’s not brave enough to test it, this thing. That he couldn’t cope with her recoiling. That his head is so light and his mouth is so dry that he might faint before he can reach out and touch her. Then she rolled onto her stomach and raised onto her hands and knees, crawling forward a little, hand reaching out while his eyes followed it all the way to the coffee pot. 

“Charles?” She shakes it at him, 

“No, thank you.” 

Something about her smile and the way she lounged back made him think she was toying with him, 

“Well let me know,” she says, “if you want it you can have it.”

Even he can’t miss that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the smut you've been looking for - but it's subtle. It's been a while since I wrote any, so hmu with feedback if you have any!

_ If you want it, you can have it.  _

The words ring in his ears long after Rosie lies down and goes to sleep; the embers of the fire cast a rosy glow on her back, highlighting the curve of her waist and the fiery lava spill of her hair onto the bedroll. He fought to close his eyes, and tried not to imagine it lying on his arm or over his chest in the morning. Tried to avoid thinking about how soft and warm she would be in the morning; how the fine, golden hair on her pale arms would catch the light. More than that, he pushes away the urge to get up and cross the space between them, to push her shirt up and run his hands over her back, kiss her neck, and push her trousers below the curve of her rear. 

She shifts in her sleep and sighs. How can she be so peaceful? As if there’s no world around them and no tens-

“Charles, just get over here.” She turns to look at him, and he flushes with shame, knowing what he must look like, staring in the dark, lips parted just a little, 

“Uh…”

“Or don’t, if you don’t want to,” she says suddenly, and he can hear the panic in her voice; she thinks she’s mistaken, “that was a stupid thing to say, I just thought that you- Dutch told me that- and when you invited me I-”

He scrambles, not at all gracefully, to her and silences her with a kiss before backing off a little, sitting on his knees while she blinks and looks up at him. Propped up on her elbows as she is, the blanket slips down and her shirt pulls tight, he tries not to be distracted by how her nipples press against the thin fabric. 

“Come here,” she says, “please.” And reaches up to take a grip of the neckline of his shirt, pulling him onto the bedroll, onto her, with a single fluid movement. 

  
  


The first kiss was a reaction, a panic, and he almost hates himself for wasting it, but this one is something else. She kicks the blanket to the side to minimise the barriers between them, and when he braces over her she opens her legs and pulls him down onto her. They slot together so smoothly that it feels natural, like nothing… except his head is spinning and his hands are shaking, and all he can think about is his weight. The size of her under him is frightening; she’s so small, 

“It’s ok,” she pulls away to whisper, and urges him down again, sighing when his weight presses down on her.

“I’m too heavy,” he mutters, 

“No you’re not,” another tug, and he lets go, propping himself up on his elbows. Rosie squirms, rubbing herself against the length of his body, one hand in his hair, tugging and pulling, the other dragging his shirt up so that she could press her slim, cool fingers to the burning skin on his ribs. He shames himself with a soft moan and cups her face with one hand. 

When she turns her head, leaving him to bury his face in her neck, she opens her mouth and lets his thumb slip inside, running her tongue over it before sucking gently, 

“God,” he gasps as a bolt electricity runs into the pit of his stomach, drawing his attention, for the first time, to the fact that he was hard. Somehow it was surprising to a small, dimly lit part of his brain; until she rolled her hips, pushing him to grind back, and moaned he hadn’t let himself imagine it going further. “You kill me,” he whispers to her, “you kill me when you do that.” 

So she did it again, of course, and twisted to look him in the eye, 

“Fuck.” He hisses through his teeth, lets out a shuddering breath and grinds against her again, presses his face into her neck as she pulls his shirt further up, 

“Charles,” Rosie gasps, “take it off. Please.”

What could he do? How could he say no to that?

The cold night air kisses his skin, followed by her gentle hands, and when he looks down at her, hair a mess, legs hooked over his hips, his heart stops. Just for a second. And then she blushes and looks away, 

“Sorry,” she whispers, 

“For what?”

“You must think I’m-”

“No,” he says quickly, leans down to kiss her, “no, I think you’re amazing.” And she squirms happily, making the inside of his head a light show. That’s all she wants, he realises, in that same small, dim part of his mind, that she only wants to be loved and safe. “I think you’re beautiful,” he whispers, “you’re perfect.”

“Stop,” she’s giggling, 

“No.” 

She buries her face in his chest for a second, then looks up and kisses him just once before nipping his lip, and whispering in his ear, 

“Off?” 

“What?” Charles asks, bleary until she tugs the waistband of his jeans and his blood runs cold then hot, “I…”

“No?” She bites her lip, 

“No! I mean, yes, but… are you sure?” 

“Yes,” she whispers, 

“Rose-”

“I’m sure, Charles.” She says, tugging him closer, “I want you.” And he can’t hear for a moment; his heart beats in his ears like thunder. He wants to ask her how she can; the things he has done, the things he has seen, 

“Why?” The words tumble out before he can stop them, and she doesn’t miss a beat, 

“Because you’re the best man I know.”

“Then you don’t know many good men,” he laughs, 

“Maybe not, but it’s true…” Rosie smiles, the big, toothy grin that melts him, “now are we going to waste more time… or?”

  
  


It’s a rush, to begin with, then he makes himself slow down; she helps him drag her shirt up, and laughs nervously when he stares for a second. She’s like fire under him, burning hot as the sun, and when he rolls her nipple between his thumb and finger she yelps and squirms, then laughs and gasps by turns as he works his mouth down her stomach, dragging her trousers down until he can press his face between her legs. 

“What are you do- oh..” its a small sound, this time, but it grows as he pulls her knees over his shoulders and runs his tongue along her slit, sucking her clit into his mouth while she kicks and gasps. Then it happens, “Charles.” 

Just his name. Nothing else, just his name and her hand in his hair; he smiles into her and grips her hips, holding her down as she squirms and kicks, and lets time get away from him, When he feels her start to twitch under his tongue, he tunes back in. She’s biting her fist, squealing and whimpering, shaking and sweating. And he’s aching, grinding into the bedroll desperately, groaning into her skin; she shudders, gasps and arches before her legs clamp around his head and she rolls up into him, jerking and whimpering as she drips from his chin. He sits up when she lets him go and smiles down at her. She’s a mess; hair tangled, sweat on her face. Shaking. It’s a beautiful sight. 

  
  


When Rosie raises her arms, he collapses into her, smells the fresh sweat on her skin, and tries to hold it together while he tries to push his own trousers down. Nearly spills when she reaches to help him, and only succeeds in getting them past his mid-thighs before raising her leg and pushing into her. It’s not as easy as he expected; she gasps mid-thrust and her legs clamp on his hips, 

“Ah, gentle,” she whispers, “please.”

“Sorry,” he whispers, stopping, shaking halfway into her as she gasps and wriggles, trying to adjust, 

“Just a minute,”

“It’s ok,” he closes his eyes, kisses her neck, and tries not to embarrass himself, “as much as you need.”

After an eternity, she digs her nails into his rear and whimpers, 

“Charles.” 

He sinks in slowly until they press together hard, and she moans in his ear, pulling his hair back as he starts to thrust hard into her. When her head falls back he grins, watching her breasts bounce with every movement, 

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs into her ear and sinks his teeth gently into the side of her neck. Slowly tension builds in the pit of his stomach, drawing his attention away from her again and again; Charles growls, baring his teeth, trying to keep focus, 

“It’s ok, Charles,” Rosie gasps suddenly, eyes half-closed, and presses her forehead to his as he lets it all slip away. 

It creeps up on him, the sudden flush of pleasure. When he pulls away she whimpers and tries to pull him back even as he spills onto her stomach, 

“Fuck.” Charles gasps, shudders, and slowly lowers himself onto the ground beside her. Reaching for his shirt, he wipes her clean and presses his lips to her sweaty cheek, smiling when she giggles nervously and pulls the blanket over them. “Not how I thought this trip would go,” he whispers with a chuckle,    
“Really?” Rosie turns to look at him, brows drawn together, 

“Well… I hoped,” he admits, “but…”

“You were too much of a big girl to make the first move?”

“I… well, basically.” 

And the tension melts; they laugh, stopping to kiss once, twice, three times. 

“I’m glad you weren’t,” he whispers,

“Me too.”


End file.
